


Write you a song

by becka



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Songwriting, in the tamest way possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 19:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10542960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: Harry is nervous about playing his album for Nick, both for general and specific reasons. (Based on Nick's story about Harry blowing off Sunday roast with Nick's mum, but as always, this is a work of fiction.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my Twitter timeline for the original breakdown that spawned this wee fic and for the even bigger breakdowns since. I love you all. <3

He started it in his notebook so long ago, literal years ago, just a couple of lines that could have been about anyone. And that's what he's kept telling himself. This song could be about anyone. But it isn't. It's about Nick. It's about laughing himself breathless in the middle of the night, about Nick's conspiratorial smile and how he wants to taste it, about how easy it is to want someone who always welcomes you in. 

Harry's never told anyone. He confessed to Niall once, drunk in a hotel room: “I'm in love with Nick,” before he realised Niall was already asleep. He's snogged Nick at parties a couple of times, laughed about it after, flushed with more than alcohol, and then remembered Nick's mouth the whole cab ride home. It's not simple, but now he's condensed it down to three and a half minutes, and he's got it on a flash drive, buried in the rest of his nearly finished album. He wants Nick to recognize it for exactly what it is. 

“My mum’s doing a roast in your honor,” Nick texts him Sunday morning, and that's different from the confession Harry pictured. He can still play his album just for Nick, but there'll be lunch first, family chat, and it twists Harry's stomach up in knots. 

He gets into the car telling himself over and over that it'll be fine, but by the time he gets to the first stoplight his heart is pounding and he thinks he might be sick. What made him think he could tell Nick the truth like this? He pulls over to the side of the road and rests his forehead on the steering wheel. He likes Eileen, and she likes him, but he doesn’t want her there today. If he plays his songs for Nick, and Nick doesn’t get it, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, and having to walk past Nick’s mum on his way out the door would make it so much worse.

He drafts a text apologising for being late, deletes it without sending. It’s going to take more than a few minutes’ breathing in the car to get him to Nick’s. He turns around and goes home, lets the emptiness of his own house steady him. There’s no need to confront his feelings here.

At half past one, Nick texts asking when he’s coming, and Harry sets the phone on the coffee table beside the sofa where he’s flung himself dramatically and doesn’t respond. He thinks about sending a courier with the flash drive and a note saying he’s ill, but he wants to see Nick’s face the first time he hears these songs. And besides, the label might actually murder him for letting the drive out of his sight. He’s a hot property.

Harry lies on the sofa through two more texts and a voicemail from Nick, friendly teasing giving way to actual annoyance. “You should have told Eileen you weren’t coming, popstar. She’ll have your head for missing these goose fat potatoes.”

They’d only known each other a few months when Nick took him round to his parents’ for Sunday lunch the first time. Nick pointed to the roast potatoes and said, “This is why I’m fat,” and Harry pinched his side and told him he wasn’t, and maybe that was the first time Harry realised how much more he wanted to touch him.

*

He phones Nick on Wednesday, after three days of silence. He doesn’t want Nick to think it’s because he talked about Harry on the radio, but it sort of is. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“No worries,” Nick says dully. “You’re busy. Will I see you before you leave again?”

“Please. Anytime. But just you and me, okay? I just want to play it for you, not for anyone else.”

“My mum wouldn’t have minded that. Or Emily. I could have even shut the dogs in the spare room if you needed me to.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Just. I got nervous.”

He can hear Nick breathing, faint sounds of conversation and the ping of a lift behind him. He must be in the office. “Can you come by tomorrow afternoon?”

“To your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Absolutely.”

“You bring lunch this time. And some songs.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Is there anything in particular you want?”

“Something that fits the theme of your music, I’d hope.”

“I’ll work on that.”

*

Harry has no idea what food fits with the theme of his music, but neither does Nick, so that’s all right. He brings a couple of sandwiches, a package of strawberries, and a bottle of wine. At least that makes it look like an occasion.

He makes it all the way to Nick’s without vomming or hyperventilating, and as he walks up the path, he can hear the dogs barking inside. Nick opens the door before he can knock. “Look, everyone, it’s Harry Styles!” Nick calls over his shoulder. He’s got Stinky tucked under one arm and he’s holding Pig back with his leg in the doorway. “You’d best come in. We’re all dying to see you.”

“It’s just you and the dogs, isn’t it?”

Nick sets Stinky down and he immediately presses his nose to the toe of Harry’s boot, sniffing like his life depends on it. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. He means it too.

“It’s all right. Send Eileen some flowers. She’ll be besotted again in no time.”

“Was she really disappointed I wasn’t here? Or is that just you making a fuss?”

Nick smiles, waving him through to the living room, Pig following after with a slobbery tennis ball in her mouth. “You know she always looks forward to seeing you. She always has done.”

Harry remembers the sickening moment after he’d gone to Nick’s parents’ for the first time, when he had to talk himself out of crying in the car because he could so easily imagine fitting their family alongside his own. He’s been in love with Nick for so long. “I’ll send her something.”

“Good boy. Shall we have lunch and check out these songs of yours then? Did you bring something appropriately posh?”

“Do you think my songs are going to be posh?” He goes through to the kitchen and sets the bag with the food on the island whilst the dogs circle around him, under foot no matter how he turns.

“I think you only shop at Waitrose nowadays, or Whole Foods, which is even worse.”

Harry rolls his eyes and starts to unpack the bag, setting everything neatly out on the counter. “It’s probably not even good wine,” Harry says, although he’s not totally clear why he should talk down the lunch he bought. He doesn’t want Nick to feel obligated to do, well, anything, even though Harry’s scooping out his insides and laying them on the table. Which is a terrible metaphor at lunchtime.

“Looks nice,” says Nick carelessly. “Are the songs a side dish or are they pudding?”

“Pudding,” Harry tells him. He doesn’t think he could eat and listen to himself sing at the same time.

Nick puts a hand on his shoulder, and it’s so unexpected that Harry flinches hard under it. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, love. I’m sure they’re good songs. And if they're not, I've been practicing lying convincingly. I think I'm getting better.”

Harry smiles wanly, wishing that were all he was worried about. “I hope you like them.”

Nick looks at him a moment too long, and Harry has to look away first. He wonders if he could lie and say it’s all for someone else. But after lunch when they sit down with Nick’s laptop at the enormous kitchen island, he knows he can’t possibly hide it. And he wants Nick to know. Nick deserves to know.

He plays the first song with his eyes shut, even though it’s one that started with a chord progression and not a feeling, even though it’s not about Nick at all. But by the time it finishes he’s sneaking glances at Nick’s face through his fingers.

“Shall I take this into the other room?” Nick asks, pausing the second track as the intro swells, probably because Harry’s started hyperventilating a little bit. “You're giving me anxiety here.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. He’s shaky and unprepared, even though he’s planned this moment out in his head, imagined Nick looking up in surprise as he realizes that Harry’s been pining for him all along. He’s pictured that moment of realization so often, and now that he’s here, it’s obvious it might not happen. Nick could miss the message entirely. “Keep going. I’ll be quiet.”

“That’s what the last guy I brought home said. He wasn’t.”

Harry goes red so fast he’s actually lightheaded. He hasn’t felt so awkward in years. “Not sure if that’s a good thing.”

“Pig thought he was dying and started ramming herself into the door. It was distracting.”

“That’s a shame.”

Nick shrugs. “It wasn’t that good before then anyway, if I’m honest. If I hit play again, are you going to have some kind of episode?”

“No. I’ll just… sit. And breathe normally. I think.”

He does all right for the next few songs, as Nick nods along, looking carefully interested. Harry knows this is awkward for him too, they’ve been through it before. But then track 6 starts, and Harry has to shut his eyes again. He remembers singing it in the studio, pouring his heart into it, hearing the catch in his voice afterwards. It sounds “authentic,” he’s been told. He can’t imagine what he’ll do if Nick says that too.

Nick doesn’t say anything when it finishes though, lets the next track play, and the next, and the next. It’s twelve in all, and Nick doesn’t pause again. Harry feels numb by the end, hollowed out. He can practically hear Nick taking the piss out of every slightly awkward lyric and dramatic piano flourish. Nick smiles gently.

“It’s good, Haz. It sounds really good. It all fits together.” He hesitates, twirling a finger on the laptop trackpad. “Can I listen to one of them again?”

Harry nods, holding his breath as Nick clicks play on track 6. He frowns listening to it this time, and Harry’s heart stumbles in his chest. He wants something to happen, but he’s not even sure what. He’s never really pictured what follows the perfect cinematic moment where Nick gets it.

“I think I like this one the best,” he says when it finishes. “It’s really honest. And relatable.”

“Relatable?”

“Yeah. I know what that feels like.” Nick looks at him, and Harry feels frozen, helpless to make the next move, whatever it is. “When you want to be with someone in a different way, but things are already good as they are, and you’re never sure what to do.”

“I’m not sure what to do,” Harry admits. He’s staring at Nick’s mouth, and he thinks it can’t be this simple.

But maybe it can be. Nick cups a hand around his cheek, thumb sliding along the edge of his jaw, and Harry closes his eyes as their lips meet. It’s slow and soft and familiar, but distantly. He’s never kissed Nick sober, and his tongue gets less involved now, but it feels more intense. It’s hard to stop now he’s started.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks, his mouth lingering on Nick’s.

“Stupid,” Nick murmurs fondly and kisses him again. Harry feels so light, helpless with relief and something more than that, like whole new possibilities are spooling out from this moment. There’s still plenty to be afraid of, with his album and with his life, but for now he’s practically invincible, pulling away from Nick because his grin is growing out of control.


End file.
